Letter to Syria

In the spring of 2015, Christiano leaves his war-torn home country Syria. In the summer of 2015, he arrives on the shores of the Elbe River at Wedel near Hamburg. There he meets Lukas. Cristiano writes a letter to his homeland Syria. Together they translate the text into German so that people in both countries will understand the message. At the wedel-schaedel.de poetry slam they presented their text for the first time. The audience was left speechless – listening not only to a Syrian and a German, but to two young men, two friends.

Refugees welcome!

It's not often that I get attached to my translation projects or feel they will have much of an impact in the world -- after the thousandth "Press the On/Off button to turn the device on" or "Swallowing batteries can be fatal" or "Do not place the coffee machine in the oven to dry it" I start to wonder what I'm doing with my life -- but this project was different. The video was put together by a friend of a friend, along with other talented, creative types, and as I'd done a couple other neat translation/subtitle projects with him before he asked if I'd be interested in doing the translation for this. So much has been written and debated about the migration of refugees to Europe and beyond this past year, but the intimately human aspect of the lives involved is often overshadowed by the numbers. This story is a reminder of that vitally important aspect, and I hope with fading optimism that, in this fresh, new year, my homeland will act on its founding principles and be as welcoming as its neighbor to the north.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOG-7fC53Io

This means a lot to me. Please watch it and, if you feel moved to do so or know someone who might appreciate it, please pass it along.   

In which we pause for a moment of repose.

So. Home has officially moved ten minutes south, the kitchen is getting cosier by the day, and if all goes well we shall be connected to the world wide web in T -7 days. Getting settled is taking some time, what with working all day and all the Olympics to observe while sitting on a friend's couch for hours at a time/watching people being exceedingly fit, but I have no doubt that our new residence will become even sweeter than the home sweet home we left to the north. I'm currently working on assembling a retrospective of sorts of recurring photos taken around the old apartment during different seasons over the past 2+ years, but as there are hundreds of them it'll take a little time yet. Until then, here is some shadow play in my old room that greeted me after work one afternoon shortly before moving:

 

In which the tourists missed this Rome (Part II).

June 2013. Here's a people-heavy post to make up for the lack of personalness in most of my other posts -- I'll even go so far as to use a name, Jesse, to represent my brother (though that may or may not be his real name... 'kay, Jess?). Righto, back to Roma.

The rest of our Roma days were spent in an overlooked suburb of the city with a giant, multinational blob of blasting brass bands -- an event otherwise known as Sbandata Romana 2013 (and this promo video is very silly, particularly with regard to Rome in June).

Saturday started out playing in the heart of the neighborhood with one of the Roman bands, which then turned into a surprise parade around town, led by one of the event organizers.

 

The first parade destination was an indoor market, and MY weren't they surprised. The band filed in, more than filling the echoey room. I followed behind, all smiles, and had a shock of my own when an adorable, Roley-Poley Butcher rushed out from behind his stand and grabbed me by the waist, swinging me around to the cheering and delight of the crowd. Once my brain caught up with the situation, I happily obliged and danced along before thanking him with a grin and a curtsy and catching up with the band. They played a few tunes amidst a bustling audience while the Sbandata organizer spread the word about the festival in town, inviting everyone to come to events. I liked the guy sitting on the bench with the green shirt and oxygen tank.

Another happy moment came as I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see the Roley-Poley Butcher snatch another surprise dance partner -- the surprise being entirely hers.

Next we paraded to a café where we were joined by another band and a bald street performer. The café owner was delighted and brought out bottle after bottle of wine, foccacia, olives, and other fine treats. He then asked the bands to play in front of the bakery across the street, an act which was met with similar hospitality.

The main event of the afternoon was a parade through the neighborhood with all the bands, many of which were costumed. As someone not playing an instrument, I had the pleasure of observing the effects of the parade on the locals. Balconies filled, people of all ages peeking out of windows with expressions of great surprise, confusion, wonder. All smiles.

Jesse and I decided to pass on the long lines for dinner that night and went to the little downtown for pizza. By pizza, I mean the tastiest pizza we had ever eaten, purchased by weight and dished out by a hilarious pizza fellow. When walking back to the park for the night's concerts, we were tickled to see a designated "jazz tram" at the usual tram stop, equipped with mood lighting and leaking smooth tunes.

There were four performance areas in the park, all of which were packed with bouncing people of all ages. Each band had their own set with some musicians invited to play around with new friends.

The final day began gently with a giant brunch for all musicians and tagalongs. Jesse's mind was blown by the GIANT BOWL OF PARMESAN that would have cost a hefty sum in Germany and an even heftier sum in the States. My being was blown by the natural jam session that ensued, as one naturally does when you put hundreds of well-fed musicians together with instruments. This big jam then split off into smaller jams around the park, with musicians migrating from one to another.

Jesse tried to entertain the little children by playing something they'd recognize and started twinkletwinklelittlestarring. Nothing but blank faces and arms crossed over adorabley rounded bellies. Luckily a musician better versed in European children came to the rescue with the Pippi Langstrumpf theme song, and, well, check it out:

The day proceeded like this until night fell and the final round-robinesque hoo-hah began. The invisible music-playing stick was tossed from band to band, though it was hard to tell where one band ended and another began. Solos were thrown to new friends and invitations to play common hits with one group or another only upped the integration and made the musical swarm all the warmer and swarmier.

We flew back north the next morning, luckily training out of the city just before a public transportation strike that ended up kinking the travel plans of many other musicians. Out the Train window, the City turned to fields and buildings to hay bales. Out the plane window, sunny Italy turned to chilly, rainy Hamburg, making the memories of the weekend all the more memorable.

 

In which all the trees of the night will clap their hands.

One night last week I was walking home on my usual route from the S-Bahn and had almost reached the luminous construction vortex when I was about knocked over by its gatekeeper -- a giant old tree that has probably been on this planet far longer than I have. Unlike most of its nekkid neighbors, its branches were still fully decked out in their summer attire. What struck me as different, however, was how very, very, inyerface-goldeny-orange the whole thing was, aided by the reddish glow of the bank across the street. By this point I'd already gone from the gleeful slurping up of autumnal colors to the quiet anticipation of winter that comes in gray November. This delayed magnificence took no mercy. It reminded me of the rose in Le petit prince, which took forever perfecting her plumage and bloomage before emerging one day in the full splendor of the sunrise. This tree also took its time, carefully selecting its colors and waiting for the rest of the leaves on the street to fall before the grand slam BAM! HERE I AM! At that point I only had my baby Nikon on me, which produced this proud impression:

 

Blurred or not, I am much more partial to its whimsy than the lack thereof in the photo I took with The Big Guns a few nights later.

 

Beziehungsweise:

 

 

Now back to that quiet anticipation.

In which the swans get twisty on sunshine.

Last Sunday Hamburg experienced that most remarkable phenomenon that is beautiful weather. Beautiful, beautiful weather.

Things got funkay. Neigh on psychedelic.

Swans were a-bathin' in the sunshine. I think the ultraviolet rays somehow skew the gravitational force around their necks, which cause them to contort in all sorts of awkward and rubbery ways.

 

Or maybe they were playing a combination of Twister and Hide & Seek?

Now you see me...          ...now you don't!

(Totally missed the special feature in the top right corner until I found this photo.)

Lookit dem chompahs!

The little boy is particularly thrilled with the Amazing One-Legged Beast. Don't miss its special leg shake at the end!

 

A few meters to the left, other swans were more keen on greed than glamour. As were the pigeons, ducks, seagulls, geese, children, etc.

 

 

One of my retirement goals is to sit in parks all day and giggle at water fowl.

Ich bin so pumped.